November 3, 2011 11:52am EDTNovember 3, 2011 12:48am EDTNBA arenas are silent during what should be the season's first week. Fans suffering withdrawal can fantasize with Jerry West, who in his new book outlines his game for the ages.

The No Basketball Association is in full swing, and sports fans are poorer for it.

It hurts the brain to tune into the latest reports regarding the labor negotiations—the owners are prepared (and many reportedly want) to lose the entire season, the players inquire about joining teams in glamorous spots like Latvia or Wollongong and everybody forgets to check in on the ticket sellers, ushers and popcorn makers who kind of could use these absent paychecks.

If you’re already jonesing for a basketball fix, close your eyes and tumble into Jerry West’s Dream Game. Let the legend lure you to a time and place where perfection and sportsmanship and hand-checking really do exist, and the most elite players slip across the generations to create magic in a parallel universe.

“In reality, of course,” West writes in his book West by West, My Charmed, Tormented Life, “the only sports in which you can have a perfect game are bowling and baseball, but this was not reality.”

All 338 pages are a fantastic read, as West reveals the “murderous thoughts,” deep anger and severe self-esteem issues that fueled his journey from a West Virginia hollow to NBA superstardom. Flip to the end and there’s another treat: an entire chapter devoted to his obsessive fantasy of what his Dream Game might look like.

The details are transcendent.

“The setting is Madison Square Garden, my favorite arena, and it’s playoff time, the time I live for,” West writes. “There is a slight chill in the air even though it is spring, a Sunday in May. People are filing into the Garden for this special game, a game to be played at the highest level by players in their prime, and this game, which may or may not be a Game Seven, is one that everyone wants to see and that has been sold out for months (though that doesn’t prevent the scalpers from furiously plying their trade up and down Seventh Avenue).”

West’s keen eye misses nothing: He joyfully describes the audience, noting Jack Nicholson lounges courtside with Sean Connery and they’re talking with Spike Lee and Snoop Dogg, and across the way are Dustin Hoffman, Warren Beatty and Denzel Washington. Frank Sinatra is there with Sandy Koufax, because the Dodgers are in town to play the Mets. Athletic greats such as Sam Huff, Jim Brown, Joe Louis and Sugar Ray Robinson arrive—Sugar Ray “pulled up in his pink Cadillac and caused a stir”—and even Presidents Obama, Bush and Clinton sit next to each other, bonded by their love of sport and ready to witness something nobody thought probable.

“Hell, even that couple who were certain I would never amount to anything have found their way to New York from their porch in Chelyan (W. Va.) to see what all the fuss is about,” West writes. Miraculously both Monet and Picasso are in the Garden, hopefully to capture the panorama on their sketchbooks. In West’s imagination, “they sit next to Stevie Wonder, who has no trouble visualizing the scene.”

The Garden does have its ghosts and here now to call the play-by-play are Chick Hearn and Johnny Most, and West is certain the game will be so spectacular it will inspire “new Chickisms and that Johnny will actually be able to identify each player by name.” The press table is filled with luminaries of the sports writing world who presumably won’t have a single problem filing their copy. (This, after all, is an enchanted Garden where the phones actually work.)

West’s rules are what you’d expect from a man who excelled during an era that was extremely physically demanding and without a 3-point goal. Hand-checking is permitted, traveling is not, and there will be no carrying or palming of the ball. Only if a pass results directly in a basket will an assist be credited, according to the man whose lefthanded dribbling silhouette has long been used as the NBA’s official logo.

More rules that round out West’s superb afternoon:

Each player is in his prime (age 26-29) and has had equal access to doctors, trainers, nutritionists, massage therapists and state-of-the-art practice facilities.

Each player flies coach—no charters—and takes care of his own luggage and uniform. Each player has only one pair of sneakers.

Each player must travel alone, without entourage, publicist, bodyguard, or access to social media. Twittering if forbidden. “Just the player, his teammates, and his coaches, a contained band of brothers,” West writes.

BUT WHO ARE THE PLAYERS? So you probably howl, the basketball withdrawal having kicked in after reading West’s colorful tease, the shakes and the sweating beginning about when Sean Connery and Jack Nicholson entered the Garden. “Because I love mystery,” West writes, “I decide that the only thing each player will know beforehand is that he is supposed to arrive at the Garden by 1 p.m. and that someone will take him straight to his assigned locker room; then, and only then, will the player find out who else is on his team.”

Written by hand and posted on the wall are the rosters, players on the East team turning left into the Knicks' locker room, players on the West turning right into the cramped dinginess.

Only the organ sounds when the players take the floor. It’s not an All-Star game, not a playground game; no, this is a moment when the universe shifts and possibilities abound. This is Russell defending the Sky Hook, Shaquille going against Wilt’s fadeaway jumper, Rick Barry ignoring Bird's trash talking. Oscar and Magic dazzle in the backcourt and, writes West, “the battle between Elgin Baylor and Julius Erving (gets) the most oohs and aahs from the crowd.”

West brings us to five seconds left on the clock, the score tied 105-105, everyone in the Garden standing, Monet and Picasso capturing on their sketchbooks the flowing beauty and superb power of the game at its purest. Mr. Clutch takes the inbound pass from Magic, moves to the right, near the top of the key, seconds counting down ...

The heart beats faster, the face goes flush. And this is just an invented Dream Game, born from a brilliant mind! The real games were never quite that magnificent—how could they be?—but they were often something. Curse you, basketball, for taking it all away.